


Cross Your Heart And Hope

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mention of Canonical Character Death, Mutual Pining, S1 to S4 timeline, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-20 05:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: The look Martin gives him is more grateful than an offer of tea probably warrants. “That would be...really nice. I can make it if you like?”“I do actually know how to make tea, you know. Wait here.” Jon waves at the door to the storage room. Martin glances at it nervously, as if a worm might be lurking just inside waiting to spring out at him.“I’ll be right back,” Jon adds, “I promise.”*A series of promises.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 178
Kudos: 196





	1. April 2016

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting half completed in my WIP folder since December, so I figured it was time to dust it off and finish it up. This close to the finale, I think we all need some softness!
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful fatal_drum for beta reading!

Jon doesn’t intend to fall asleep at his desk, but when he jolts awake to a shout and the sound of something hitting the ground, he’s not exactly surprised to find himself there. It’s been that sort of day. 

He checks his watch; half past ten. There’s a sheaf of papers and half a mug of cold tea in front of him, and he knows there should be only one other person in the Archives at this time. Jon gets to his feet with a groan—sleeping at his desk isn’t doing much for his back—and goes to check, ignoring the creeping fear in the back of his skull: what if it _isn’t_ Martin?

It _is_ Martin, of course. He’s kneeling near the door to the storage room, collecting an enormous pile of scattered papers from the floor and placing them back in a large file box. He’s muttering to himself as he works; Jon hears _“bloody stupid” and “get it together”_ before he clears his throat _._ Martin startles, his head snapping around.

“God, Jon! You scared me. Wh-what are you still doing here?”

Jon could say that he isn’t sure what he’s doing here, if he’s honest. Not much _good,_ it seems. Not when there’s a woman made of worms laying siege to the Institute, while the comfortable mundanities of the world slip through his fingers. He could say that all he knows how to do is keep working: reading the statements, researching, grasping for knowledge as if that might somehow protect them. So that’s what he’s doing, for longer and longer each day. Pushing through the fog of exhaustion, grasping for any shred of control over the situation. Always failing, or so it feels. 

He could say all of that. It might feel good to admit it to someone else. Martin might even understand, with everything he’s been through. 

“Working,” he says instead. “I, ah, didn’t realize how late it had gotten. What happened?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just went to get a glass of water, and as I was coming back I thought I saw one of the, uh...one of _them.”_

“The worms, you mean?” 

Martin nods. “It gave me a fright, and I bumped into the shelf, knocked the box over on top of myself. I—I’m sure I was just...imagining things. Just being stupid, you know?”

Jon swallows the reprimand that springs to his tongue by rote: _you should be more careful, some of these files are very old._ It feels a pointless thing to say. A mean thing, when it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. A nasty little reflex because he’s tired, because it’s been a long day. A long month, tension winding tight as a spring. But it’s been even longer for Martin. 

Instead, he simply crouches and starts gathering the files near his feet, shuffling them into order and passing them over. Martin’s hands are trembling, he notices. 

Once all the papers are refiled—more or less in order—Martin lifts the box back into its place on the shelf. 

“Sorry, again,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to it. You should really think about going home, though, it’s late even for you.” 

He’s right, Jon should go back to his office and his frustrating, fruitless research—or yes, maybe even go home and snatch a few hours of sleep. But Martin’s hands are still shaky, and his smile even more so, and Jon knows how he feels. He glances at his watch again; sod catching the last train, Elias can pay for a taxi. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks. “Mine’s gone cold.” 

The look Martin gives him is more grateful than an offer of tea probably warrants. “That would be...really nice. I can make it if you like?”

“I do actually know how to make tea, you know. Wait here.” Jon waves at the door to the storage room. Martin glances at it nervously, as if a worm might be lurking just inside waiting to spring out at him.

“I’ll be right back,” Jon adds, “I promise.” That seems to assuage Martin’s fear somewhat. Enough at least that he stays behind while Jon goes to put the kettle on in the Archives’ tiny kitchenette.

Jon does know how to make tea, despite what Martin may think, though he hesitates when it comes to adding milk and sugar. Does Martin take sugar? He thinks he should probably know, after they’ve been working together for the better part of a year. In the end he makes it the same as his own, one spoon and a splash of milk. 

Martin looks relieved when he returns, and Jon can’t blame him for not wanting to be alone. He offers one of the mugs and looks around for a place to sit, finally settling on the step stool that everyone but Martin uses for reaching the top shelves. He watches as Martin takes a careful sip of his tea.

“I wasn’t sure how you took it,” he apologizes. 

“No sugar usually,” Martin says, then hastens to add: “It’s fine though! Really, thanks.” 

Jon takes a sip from his own mug and looks around the room. There’s a duffel bag propped against the wall, a jacket hanging off the corner of a shelf. An upturned file box serves as a bedside table, holding Martin’s wallet, a book, and—for some reason—a corkscrew. It’s far from homey, and Jon knows from experience that it’s difficult to get a good night’s sleep on the camp bed, its frame complaining loudly at every movement. He feels a sudden pang, something between sympathy and guilt. 

“How are you, Martin?” he asks. He’s not sure if he’s ever asked before. Probably not, from the way Martin’s eyebrows raise for a moment, before he settles into another insincere smile. 

“I’m—I’m fine. Not getting the best sleep of my life, mind.”

“I, ah, I know what you mean,” Jon says. “We should see if we can get Elias to spring for a proper bed down here.”

“Maybe we should get bunks? You know, in case two of us end up run out of our homes by worms.” It’s a weak joke, but Jon laughs along with him. Even if it doesn’t help anything, laughter feels good. Defiant. 

“I bagsy the top bunk,” he says, “Further away from the worms.” They both laugh again, and Jon feels some of the tightness in his chest unwind. 

“Thanks, Jon,” Martin says after a few moments. 

“What for?”

“For—for believing me, I suppose? And not making me feel stupid about...all this.” 

_Stupid._ This is the third time tonight Jon’s heard Martin use that word to dismiss himself, and god, he recognizes that urge. It feels easier, sometimes. Safer than examining what you’re really feeling. He sets his mug down. 

“It’s not stupid to be scared, Martin. It’s an evolutionary survival tactic that has served very well through the millennia. And it’s particularly not stupid when we know for a fact that there is a—” _Human worm colony,_ his brain supplies, but Jon’s not ready to admit that much. “—at the least, a very ill person stalking us.” 

“I just feel a bit pathetic, I suppose. Jumping at shadows.”

“Considering some of the research we’ve dug up on the Church of the Divine Host, jumping at shadows doesn’t seem unreasonable.” Jon intends the comment as dry humor, but it comes out rather more grim. Martin smiles, though, so it’s probably all right. 

“What’s the latest on that?” he asks, and Jon tells him as they drink their tea. It’s not precisely a pleasant subject, but it’s not worms, it’s not right there threatening their lives, so it feels safe enough. Safe as anything does these days. 

After a while, Martin starts yawning; he’s doing his best to stifle it, but Jon recognizes his cue to leave. He gets up and holds his hand out for Martin’s empty mug. 

“Try and get some rest,” he says. “You’ll be useless tomorrow otherwise.”

“Same goes for you,” Martin points out, and Jon supposes he’s not wrong.

“Y-yes, I’ll be heading home shortly. Sleep well, Martin.”

“Night, Jon.”

Jon rinses the mugs out in the kitchenette and leaves them on the draining board to dry. He heads back to his office, and pauses in the door for a moment, considering. Martin was right, he probably should get some rest. 

He checks his watch again; quarter past eleven, and he’s feeling alert, the caffeine from the tea kicking in. He can work for a bit longer. Maybe he’ll find something that will actually help.


	2. February 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for fatal_drum for beta reading!

“Okay, I’m going to text you my address—and directions, in case the driver doesn’t know how to get there, because you _know_ some of these guys consider satnav to be an affront to their cabbie pride. Macho bullshit, honestly.”

The easy pragmatism of Georgie’s voice rolls over him, her breeziness reassuring, and Jon feels the choking panic recede just a bit. Feels himself able to breathe. 

“Thank you again, Georgie, really—” 

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the state of my guest room.” Jon huffs a breath that might be a laugh at that, and he can almost hear Georgie’s grin down the phone.

“Text’ll be with you in one minute. See you soon.”

“Yes, I-I’ll see you soon.”

Georgie hangs up, and Jon lowers his phone from his ear to check the time. It’s been less than an hour since he left the Institute. Since he saw Jurgen Leitner—his _corpse,_ god, how could anyone do that to another person? He can feel the panic clawing its way back up his throat, his heart hammering in his rib cage. 

He just walked into a _murder_ scene, and the police are definitely going to think he did it, after how paranoid he’s been these past months. His mind is racing with Leitner and Gertrude and Sasha— 

A wave of grief washes over him, almost nauseating in its intensity. Sasha. She’s dead, she’s _been_ dead, all this time, and he never even noticed. What are Martin and Tim going to think, with a fucking crime scene in Document Storage and him and Sasha both gone? The panic squeezes around his ribs, tightens his throat, and he forces himself to take slow breaths, in and out. It’s going to be okay. He just needs some time to think about this, figure out what to do next. 

He jumps when his phone chirps, but it’s only the promised text from Georgie with her address and detailed directions. It doesn’t take him long to spot a black cab with its light on; he flags it down and clambers into the back. Gives the driver the address, and sinks back against the seat as they pull away from the curb, closing his eyes. His heart is still racing.

He’s lucky Georgie still has the same phone number, and that she still—for some reason—thinks enough of him to offer him a bed without asking too many questions. There’s no way he could go back to his own flat, the police are bound to be knocking on his door soon; Elias will give them his address.

And his phone number, he realizes with a jolt. They can track your phone, can’t they? From the signal towers. Is that only when it’s powered on? Jon thinks so, because it can’t send any signals when it’s switched off, can it? He fumbles his phone back out of his pocket, his fingers still trembling with adrenaline. He presses down the button to power it off, then releases it again. Hesitates for a moment, biting his lip, and lets out a long breath. 

He pulls up the messaging app and scans for Martin’s name. The last message is from a few days ago, asking him if he wanted anything from the cafe around the corner, because Martin was going and he knew Jon hadn't thought to bring lunch from home _._ There’s a smiley face at the end. Jon never replied, too busy buried in whatever it was he was researching—he can't even remember now, it seems so long ago. Before he found the tape about Lucy Cooper and the thing that wasn't her mother. Before he realized—

That day, Martin brought him a sandwich anyway. Sat in Jon’s office and ate lunch with him, forced him to stop working for half an hour. It was nice. They talked about normal things, or at least Martin did: a film he watched last weekend, a dog he met on his way into work that morning. The mundanity of it, the warmth of Martin’s voice, it made Jon feel safe, in a way that's been vanishingly rare the past year. It was just...really nice.

There’s a pang in his chest at the memory, so recent but it seems a world away. He types as quickly as he can with his hands still shaking. 

_I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’ll explain everything. I just need to sort this out first._

The message whooshes off into the ether, and Jon powers down his phone before it can deliver. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to turn it back on for a while, to see how Martin responds— _if_ he does. Maybe that’s for the best, under the circumstances. All he can do is hope Martin believes him.


	3. June 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fatal_drum for betaing, all remaining mistakes are my own!

The sky outside the window is just beginning to shade towards dawn, but the city lights of Beijing are still gleaming. They blur in Jon’s gritty eyes as he dials the phone, forming wavering halos. It’s five in the morning, and he’s been up for an hour, his body’s circadian rhythm giving no ground to the fact that he’s still exhausted. He’s had a shower and two cups of hotel room coffee, and he isn’t feeling anything close to human yet. 

Should he even use ‘human’ as a baseline for how he feels anymore? That’s probably one of those questions Elias would refuse to answer properly, tell him it doesn’t matter anyway, but it does. It _does._

The phone keeps ringing, the international dial tone unfamiliar and jarring, and Jon wonders if he’s got his time zones wrong. It shouldn’t be that late in London. Maybe Martin’s had an early night, or left his phone on silent. Maybe he has better things to do than answer calls from his boss at all hours. Maybe...god, maybe something’s wrong? 

Jon cuts off that train of thought right there. They’re all fine at home, he’s sure of it. He’d have heard if anything had happened. Unless of course it only just— 

“Hello? Jon?” Martin’s voice is pitched high and breathless, as if he’s scrambled to get to his phone. The familiarity of it settles something warm in Jon’s chest. Something he’s missed, here in this bland hotel room in a city he doesn’t know. 

“Martin,” he says, with something like relief. “How are you? I’m not calling too late, am I?”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine! How are you?” 

“I’m all right. Good. A bit jet lagged. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.” 

“Of course! Hang on, let me grab a pen…” There’s some shuffling at the end of the line, and Jon feels a smile stretching his lips. Martin is always conscientious about these things.

“Right, go ahead!” Martin’s voice returns. 

“I have to go to America, turns out Gertrude had some documents sent from the Pu Songling Center to an address in Chicago.”

“Oh, you’re not coming home then?” There’s a faint note of dismay in his voice, and Jon is instantly worried again. 

“Not yet, no. I-is everything all right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Martin says with a cheeriness that sounds forced. “We’re fine. Just...it’s all a lot, you know?” 

“I know,” says Jon. Silence settles heavily for a moment between them, as Jon tries to think of something to say; he wishes he could come home, he’s sorry he isn’t there, he misses— 

“Anyway, sorry, what was it you needed?” 

“R-right,” Jon says. “I have to renew my ESTA—”

“Your what?”

“Umm, visa waiver, for UK residents traveling to the US.” 

“Oh right, I’ve, uh, I’ve never been.”

“I’ve only been once, for a conference in Florida. I can’t say I saw much of the country, mostly just the airport and the hotel. I did see an alligator, though.” Jon stops, aware that he’s rambling; god he’s tired. “Anyway, I need my National Insurance Number for the application, so when you get in tomorrow can you go to my office and check in my desk for a payslip? If you can’t find one, you could ask Rosie—”

“I can check now if you like?”

“Are you still at the Institute?” There’s silence for a moment, and then Martin replies guiltily:

“...Yeah?”

“Martin, it’s nine o’clock at night! What on earth are you still doing at work?” Yes, Jon is aware of the hypocrisy of him berating someone for spending too many hours in the office, but, well, he’s the boss. ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ applies, and he already has enough things to feel guilty about without adding ‘encouraging poor work/life balance’ to the list. 

“It’s been busy!” Martin protests. “Lots of...research, you know? You’re not the only one trying to stop the world from ending.” Jon hears the anxious, tired note in his voice, and beneath that the stubborn determination that it took Jon far too long to recognize. Of course Martin’s still at work, because he’s scared, and because he’s brave. He lets out his breath slowly.

“I...right,” he says. “Of course. Well since you’re there, do you mind checking?”

“I’m already in your office.” Jon hears the sound of drawers opening, and then a triumphant _ah-hah_ from Martin. 

“Got it. Ready?” 

Jon jots the digits down as Martin reads them out, and then grabs his laptop. 

“Do you mind hanging on for a minute, so I can make sure this works?”

“No, of course I don’t mind.” Martin’s voice is soft, and Jon has a moment of ridiculous longing, just to be in the same room with him. To see his face, the way his expression sometimes goes so fond when Jon says something that seems, to him, perfectly reasonable. Jon’s given up ignoring the way his heart beats a little faster when Martin smiles at him; denial is a fool’s game. Doesn’t mean it’s not awfully inconvenient, though, when they’re trying to stop the world from ending. 

“How’s Beijing?” Martin asks, as he types in his information one-handed, the other cradling his phone to his ear. Jon considers. 

“I haven’t seen much of it,” he says. “It’s a lot like London, I think, full of busy people. But different as well. Unique. It looks spectacular at night.” 

“I’d like to see it,” says Martin wistfully. 

“I wish you could be here,” Jon says, exhaustion unfiltering his thoughts, and feels immediately embarrassed. “I-I mean, I think you’d like it. You should, ah, consider having a holiday here.”

“When all this is over?” Martin says, wryly. Jon clicks the button to confirm his credit card information. 

“Yes,” he says. “When it’s all—afterwards.”

There’s silence for a few moments, nothing but the sound of Martin’s breath, close and intimate against despite the distance. Jon feels a lump forming in his throat. When the laptop _bings_ loudly to confirm his successful payment, he jumps. 

“Ah,” he says. “It worked.” He’s paid for the rush processing, so it should be completed long before his flight. If not...well he’ll have to deal with that as it comes. 

“Thank you, Martin,” he says. “You really should go home. Get some rest.”

“I will. You be careful in Chicago—try not to get kidnapped again.” Martin’s voice is bright with fake levity, but Jon hears the real worry beneath it. He nods, realizing too late that Martin can’t see him. 

“I’ll do my best,” he adds. “And I—I’ll come home soon. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Martin jokes, and Jon feels his chest ache with hoping that it’s true. He wants it to be true. 


	4. August 2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the always wonderful fatal_drum!

Jon sweeps the ashes of Gerry’s page carefully into a clean coffee mug. It’s not exactly dignified, but in a pinch it’ll just have to do. His hands are still trembling a bit in the aftermath; he hadn’t expected it to hurt that way, as the page burned, drilling through his skull worse than any migraine he’s ever had. The pain has dissipated, but he still feels shaky. Wrung out. 

He makes his way to the fire exit, pushes the door open and steps outside. It’s a nice night, the sky clear and bright with stars, a warm breeze coming in from the Thames; not what you’d expect for the night before the end of the world. 

_Not that it will be,_ he thinks determinedly, _Not if we can help it._

Jon lifts the coffee mug as high as he can and tips it down, letting the ashes sift out in a steady stream. The breeze carries some of them away, while some scatter across the street in front of him, streaking the tarmac gray. Not the most dignified funeral, but better than putting him in the bin, and Jon doesn’t think Gerry would want to be left in a drawer alongside Jane Prentiss. 

“That’s it, then,” he sighs, for want of anything else to say. He tucks the mug into the crook of his elbow, and fishes a squashed box of Marlboros out of his coat pocket. The familiar motions are soothing: tapping the cigarette out, lifting it to his lips, lighting it with his hand cupped around the flame. The smoke curls hot in his lungs. Jon presses his back against the brick, and feels the tension start to drop from his shoulders, his hands steadying. 

He’s smoked it most of the way down when the fire door grates open and Martin steps out. He looks tired, anxious, the way they all look these days. The collar of his shirt is askew, and Jon’s fingers twitch with the desire to fix it, to ghost over Martin’s throat and smooth out the lines of his shoulders. He doesn’t, of course. 

“Daisy was looking for you,” Martin tells him. “She asked me to tell you that she’s got everything packed for tomorrow. If I saw you.” 

“Thank you, Martin. What about you? Are you ready?”

“Oh, I—yes, o-of course.” Martin’s voice is nervous, but determined. “It’s not as if I’ll be doing anything, though. Just—just waiting around while you lot save the world.” 

“Hmm,” Jon nods solemnly, because he knows how much depends on Martin and Melanie. How much Martin’s putting himself at risk, even if they can’t talk about it here. He’s played it off as an easy task, but Elias has killed two people they know of in cold blood, and Jon’s heart aches thinking of Martin confronting him alone. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and Martin frowns.

“Those things are really bad for you, you know.”

“I know,” Jon sighs. “But all things considered, it probably doesn’t matter all that much.”

“Don’t say that!” Martin says. “It makes it sound like—like you’re not expecting to come back.” 

His voice is high and hurt, hands clenched at his sides. Jon’s not sure what to say, because Martin’s right, he’s not particularly expecting to come back. He wants to—desperately, fiercely—but even if they save the world, there’s a very real possibility that some of them might die. And Jon can’t let it be anyone else, not if he can possibly do anything about it. 

This, he realizes, might be the very last time he talks to Martin properly, and something constricts painfully in Jon’s chest at the realization. He drops his cigarette into the ashy mug and sets it carefully on the ground. He’s been trying to ignore this for so long, tell himself it’s not appropriate, not important, convince himself it should wait. That it would be selfish to do anything about it, when the whole world is at risk.

Instead, he thinks maybe he was just being a coward. 

“Martin,” he says, his heart racing. “I was—that is, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

“Oh?” says Martin. His cheeks are pink, and his eyes are wide, and Jon can’t stop looking at him. His mouth is suddenly dry.

“I’ve been putting it off, because of...all this. But I—I think it’s only fair that I’m honest with you. About how I feel.” 

“Oh,” says Martin, and this time it’s lower and a lot closer as he steps into Jon’s space, one of his hands grasping for Jon’s. It’s the burned hand, and the gentle way Martin takes it in his, squeezing carefully, makes Jon inhale sharply. 

“Oh god, sorry!” Martin says, and releases him, but that’s not what Jon meant at all. He grabs blindly for Martin’s hand, tangles their fingers together. Martin’s hand is soft, larger than his, and Jon feels his face going warm at the realization that he is holding Martin’s hand. Neither of them say anything for a few moments, tension stringing out tight between them until it snaps and they both laugh. 

“So…” Jon says, “What do you think?”

“I think you have absolutely rubbish timing,” Martin tells him, with a look that’s supposed to be withering but just comes across as affectionate. 

“Sorry,” says Jon, because he’s not wrong. Martin smiles. 

“It’s okay. It wouldn’t be very us if we had a handle on things, would it?” 

“Can I kiss you?” Jon blurts out, and feels his face flaming as he does. Martin looks startled, his cheeks going even pinker, and then he nods. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, so Jon does, stretching up to press his mouth against Martin’s with their fingers still twined between them. It’s brief, and sweet, and Martin gives a little huff as they pull apart, his breath warm against Jon’s cheek. 

“You taste like cigarettes,” he notes, wrinkling his nose. Jon laughs. 

“Next time I won’t,” he says, and the smile Martin gives him is shy and worried.

“You think there’s going to be a next time, then?” 

Jon wishes he could say yes, there definitely will be, that they’ll save the world and everyone will be fine, and maybe they can see where this thing between them leads. Maybe just be ordinary people together, for a little while. He doesn’t think that’s how this goes, though. He’s never been that lucky. But he wants it more than anything. He squeezes Martin’s hand in his.

“I honestly don’t know,” he says. “I wish I did. But I’ll do my best. If I can come back, I will. I promise you, Martin.” 

“I believe you,” Martin tells him solemnly. Jon isn’t so sure he believes himself, but Martin does, and that’s what matters. 


	5. February 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and commented, it makes me so happy that people have enjoyed this self-indulgent little fic. I hope you enjoy the _incredibly_ self-indulgent ending! 
> 
> Thank you to fatal_drum for the excellent beta job. <3

Jon wakes up. 

He doesn’t realize how strange that is right away; not until Basira is looking at him with suspicion and Georgie is walking out the door. Six _months;_ Tim and Daisy both dead. They saved the world, it seems, but lost so much. 

The statement helps. Much as Jon might wish it didn’t, much as he gets why Basira looks something between suspicious and disappointed when she hands it to him, by the time he gets to the end of Lorell St. John’s solipsistic nightmare, he’s feeling energized, the aches that wracked his reawakened body already fading. 

He wonders if he should call out for Basira—or maybe just get up and find her, he’s feeling well enough. He needs to know what happened, beyond them stopping the Unknowing. How did Basira make it out? Was the Circus entirely destroyed? What happened at the Institute—Martin’s plan? 

Jon feels a sudden fear rising behind his rib cage. Where is Martin? Jon would have thought—would have _hoped—_

Has something happened to Martin? Did Elias _do_ something to him? The thought tightens his chest, alarm and anger twisting together in his belly. His fingernails bite into his palms. If Elias hurt him...

Or maybe Martin isn’t here because he doesn’t want to be. Jon wasn’t there for six months, after all; he was busy being dead, and maybe Martin’s done all the grieving he needed to. Maybe he’s buried Jon, and doesn’t want to see whatever it is that’s crawled out of his proverbial grave. Martin doesn’t owe him anything off the back of a single hurried kiss and a promise that Jon kept half a year too late. It would be stupid— _arrogant—_ to think otherwise, to assume— 

There’s a murmur of voices in the corridor outside, low and urgent for a few moments, then one rises sharply above the melee and Jon’s heart leaps with it:

_“Yes Basira, I do bloody well understand that he was basically dead, now if you wouldn’t mind…”_

The door swings open and Martin is standing there. He looks exhausted, careworn, a bit wild-eyed. He looks amazingly, beautifully _Martin,_ and Jon wants to cry at the sight of him. 

“Martin…” he says, his heart in his throat.

“Hi Jon,” says Martin, and then: “God it—it’s really you, isn’t it?” 

“It...is me,” Jon confirms. “Or at least, I’m reasonably sure it is. Even if nobody else is.” 

Martin huffs a shaky laugh and then crosses the handful of steps to Jon’s bed, shutting the door pointedly behind him. He sits in the uncomfortable plastic chair by the bedside, looking at Jon like he doesn’t know what to say. Jon doesn’t know what to say either, or rather, there are too many things he wants to say all at once, and his tongue ties itself in knots as he tries to find the right order of operations. At last he manages:

“Basira said—are they...sure? A-about Tim?”

“Yeah,” says Martin quietly. “They, umm, they found his—they found him. They haven’t found Daisy, but...umm…” 

“It’s been six months.”

“Yeah.” 

“What happened with Elias? Your plan?”

“Oh, it—it worked! He’s in prison.” Martin smiles proudly for a moment, then his expression goes solemn and he drops his gaze to his hands. “But it’s...not good, at the Institute. Elias, he put Peter Lukas in charge.” 

“Oh,” says Jon. A cold feeling settles in the pit of his stomach; he’s read about Peter Lukas. “Are you—has he done anything?”

Martin doesn’t look up when he answers. “A-a couple of people from Research disappeared. They complained about the, umm, the new rules. And, uhh...he asked me to come and work for him?” 

“He asked you to—you _haven’t,_ have you?” Fear clenches Jon’s chest, and without thinking he reaches for Martin’s hand. It is warm, soft, and Jon is struck with the memory of that narrow street at the back of the Institute, their fingers tangled together and the way Martin kissed him so carefully, like it was vitally important. Martin looks up at last, his face stricken, but he shakes his head.

“No, of course not. I mean, I _thought_ about it. It’s been—things have been rough, while you were— Well. Peter said he could protect people. And he said—” He frowns. “He says there’s something coming, something... _worse,_ and that he wants my help with it.”

“Something—what kind of _‘something’?”_

“I—I don’t know, he’s only turned up a few times and he’s always so _cagey._ Worse than Elias. All I know is he says he’s trying to stop something bad from happening. And he wants me to work with him.”

“But you aren’t.”

“I’m not,” Martin confirms. “Maybe I should have. Maybe I could have stopped him from—” His fingers curl around Jon’s, and Jon isn’t sure if it’s deliberate or just reflex. “But I couldn’t, not when you—when there was any chance...” 

“Martin,” Jon says again, overwhelmed once again just by the presence of him here and now, after everything. Martin gives him a brittle sort of smile. 

“It was stupid, really,” he says, his voice wound tight with emotion. “But...you promised, the night before you left. You probably don’t even remember, but you promised. That you’d do your best to come back?”

“I remember.” Of course he does, how could he possibly forget? Jon thinks he’d remember those last stolen moments even if he forgot everything else; the fear and the hope of them, the feel of Martin’s hand in his. He tightens his grip now, and Martin gives a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. 

“Well, I believed you.” There are tears standing in Martin’s eyes, and Jon feels an answering lump rising in his throat. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

Martin laughs again, and rubs the back of his free hand over his eyes. “You still have rubbish timing.” 

Jon laughs at that as well, because he really, really does. It feels good. He tugs gently at Martin’s hand, and Martin lets himself be towed across to sit on the edge of the bed. Jon pulls his hand up and kisses his knuckles firmly. Martin rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, soft and pleased. 

“Basira thinks you’re dangerous,” he says. “And Melanie is—well, she won’t be happy to see you.”

“We’ll figure it out,” says Jon, and somehow he believes it. Despite everything—the people they’ve lost, the Institute under Peter Lukas’ thumb, the fact that he’s probably even further from human than he was—he can believe. Because Martin’s here, and Martin believed in _him._ Martin’s hand squeezes his, warm and solid. 

“I imagine six months in a coma is thirsty work,” he says. “How about a cup of tea?” 

“That sounds...wonderful,” says Jon. A good first step, at least. Martin stands up, and Jon releases his hand with some reluctance. The expression on Martin’s face is so fond that Jon finds himself smiling with it all over again. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Martin tells him, heading for the door. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @cuttoothed or on twitter @cut2th


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